TB: I am tired BUT....

Have you ever walked into a church that was empty?

I'm sure all of you have. There's that silent sound. Ok, imagine
that sound. Instead of carpet and hymnals....picture metal beds and
spider's webs. You can still picture a pulpit because it is still
there up front. Then imagine that you're a breathing is a little
bit short because you keep thinking about all the tuberculosis that
lives in the sanctuary. Breathing deeply seems risky and so you
subconsciously don't.
Despite the ghetto, there is this mystical recuperative
atmosphere that is linked to the community of those who are all
living under the same roof. Like one big, drafty dorm room. Tall,
skinny church windows climb the walls every five feet and about 20
metal beds (some with and some without mattresses) randomly occupy
free space.

The old church: This is the Tuberculosis ward.

The people who are diagnosed are given free treatment
through a program called DOT. Directly Observed Treatment. This
means that someone watches them take their pills each morning,
ensuring that they will get better. If you don't treat TB
CONSISTENTLY for 3 months, it will never go away. So these people
have this experience...hopefully a once in a life-time thing...where
they live together under the church roof while ridding their bodies of TB.
I used some tithe money that one of my good friends sent to
buy paint the other day. The next two weeks will be a painting
marathon. Happy murals. They are turning this current TB ward
into the new Pediatrics ward., making room for many more babies.
I walked in at about two in the afternoon to do some
brainstorming and only one man sat in his bed. He had an IV
(probably being treated for malaria on top of TB) and couldn't go
outside like the rest of the patients tend to do during the day. He
just sat with his legs hanging down off the edge of the bed. I had
to do a double take because I couldn't tell if there were legs in his
pant legs. He was just so skinny. That is one sign of TB. Rapid
loss of weight.
I said, "Lapiaga?" He slllooooowwwwlllllyyy reached up and
took my hand and said almost in a whisper, "Lapia." It means kind
of like, "Things are good." or "I am happy."
He asked me back, "Lapiaga?" I said, "On gilla di
di." I'm a little tired. Without missing a beat, in just the same
whisper, he said, "Kouma ma bumma." God will give it.

God will give what?
He didn't say what God would give.
I said, "Qui, Qui," Yes, Yes, like I already understood the depth of
what he said. But really it didn't sink in until it sat in my head
for a while.

How is it that this man, the sickest of all the TB patients, would
without a second thought tell me that God would give me what I needed
for my fatigue.

I am tired BUT....God will give it.
I am stressed BUT....God will give it.
I sick BUT God will give it.
I am lonely BUT....God will give it.
I am worried BUT....God will give it.
I am less than perfect BUT....God will give it.

It.
It.
It.

Whatever it is....

...the things HE knows we need.

I think I'm going to paint that on the walls somewhere. God will
give it. "What is 'it'?" people will ask. I don't know. It's
probably not what we think that we need. It's probably something
surprisingly and perfectly fit to our problem. I am tired BUT....

Kouma ma bumma.